Lalmohan Babu wanted Feluda to meet Laxman Bhattacharya. But the astrologer was out and his room was locked. We came out of Sagarika and began walking back to our hotel. The beach was quite crowded by this time, for the clouds had dispersed and the sun had come out. There was a hotel on our right, not far from the beach. ‘That’s the Railway Hotel,’ Feluda said. ‘Most of these people are staying there.’ We made our way through the crowd and moved away. Suddenly, someone called out: ‘Mr Mitter!’ A tall gentleman was standing alone, away from groups of bathers, and smiling at Feluda. He must have spent quite a few days on the beach, for when he removed his sunglasses, I could see a pale mark running from his eyes to his ears. The rest of his skin was deeply tanned. He came walking towards us. He was nearly as tall as Feluda and quite good-looking. He had a beard and a neatly trimmed moustache. ‘I have heard of you,’ he said. ‘Are you already working on a case?’ ‘Why do you ask?’ ‘There’s been a murder, I gather. So I thought you might be making enquiries.’ Feluda laughed. ‘No. I haven’t been asked to investigate, so I couldn’t make enquiries even if I wanted to.’ ‘You’re staying at the Neelachal, aren’t you?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Er . . .’ he seemed to be hesitating. ‘Have you been appointed as guard?’ Feluda asked. I had noticed it, too. The man was clutching three golden rings in his hand. He gave an embarrassed smile. ‘It’s such a bore . . . but you’re right. These belong to a guest in my hotel. I met him only yesterday. This morning, he said he wanted to have a swim in the sea, but was afraid these might come off. So he asked me to hang on to them until he came out of the water. I wish I hadn’t agreed.’ Before any of us could say anything, the owner of the rings arrived, dripping wet and accompanied by a Nulia. We recognized him instantly. It was our ‘golden’ fellow passenger, Mr M.L. Hingorani. He saw Feluda and shouted, ‘Good morning!’ Then he took his rings back, and said ‘Thank you’ to the gentleman, adding that out of all the beaches he had seen in Goa, Miami, Acapulco and Nice, there was none like the beach in Puri. We said goodbye to him and began walking again, this time accompanied by the bearded gentleman. ‘I don’t think I got your name—?’ Feluda began politely. ‘No, I didn’t tell you my name, chiefly because I thought it might not mean anything to you. There is a special area in which I’ve made a small contribution, but not many would know about it. I am called Bilas Majumdar.’

Feluda frowned and looked at the man. ‘Have you anything to do with mountains?’ he asked. ‘My God, your knowledge . . . !’ ‘No, no,’ Feluda interrupted him, ‘there’s nothing extraordinary about this. It’s just that I thought I had seen your name somewhere recently, in a journal or something. There was a mention of mountains in that report.’ ‘You’re right. I joined the institute in Darjeeling to learn mountaineering. I am actually a wildlife photographer. I was supposed to go with a Japanese team to take photos of a snow leopard. You’re probably aware that snow leopards can be found in the high altitudes of the Himalayas. Many have seen this animal, but there are virtually no photographs.’ We reached our hotel without further conversation. Lalmohan Babu kept casting admiring glances at Bilas Majumdar. Feluda ordered tea as soon as we got to our room. Mr Majumdar sat down and took out a photograph from his pocket. ‘See if you can recognize this man,’ he said to Feluda. It was a postcard-size photograph. A man wearing a cap was holding a strange animal, and several others were looking at them both. The man Mr Majumdar was pointing at was someone we had just met. ‘Yes, we left his house only a few minutes ago,’ Feluda said. ‘It’s not easy to recognize him in that photo, since he’s now got a beard.’ Mr Majumdar took the photo back. ‘That’s all I needed to know,’ he said, ‘I saw his name-plate outside his gate, but couldn’t be sure if it was the same D.G. Sen.’ ‘That animal looks like a pangolin,’ Feluda remarked. Yes! Now I could remember having read about it. It was a species of anteater. It looked as though it was wearing a suit of armour. ‘You’re right, it is a pangolin. It’s found in Nepal. That photo was taken outside a hotel in Kathmandu. D.G. Sen and I were both staying there.’ ‘When was this?’ ‘Last October. I had gone to meet that Japanese team. Some of my photos had been published in Japanese journals. When this team contacted me, I was naturally very excited. But, in the end, I couldn’t go with them.’ ‘Why? Why?’ Lalmohan Babu asked, sounding concerned. A mention of snow leopards had clearly made him smell an adventure. ‘I had an accident. I was so badly injured that I had to spend three months in hospital.’ ‘Did your hurt your left leg?’ Feluda asked. ‘I broke the shin bone in my left leg. Why, is that obvious from the way I walk?’ ‘No. But yesterday, we saw some footprints on the sand, and the mark left by a walking stick on the left side of these prints. So I thought whoever had come walking was either left-handed, or his left leg was injured. You, I can see, do not use a stick.’ ‘Sometimes I do. Walking on the sand can often be difficult. But I am only thirty-nine, you see. I don’t feel like walking about with a stick in my hand all the time, like an old man.’ ‘Then it must have been someone else.’

‘Perhaps. But I